


Too damn sober for this

by nikaris



Category: Assassin's Creed, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Angst, Bartender Desmond, Bleeding Effect, Daedric worship, Desmond Lives, Desmond has issues, Dimension Travel, Gen, Mental Instability, cause that's important, confused dragons, did I mention daedric princes, shamelessly inspired by PurpleButtons0203 and Assassin_J, skyrim is a magical place where anything can happen, why did i write this it was meant to be cracky what
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-24
Updated: 2018-02-17
Packaged: 2018-08-17 03:10:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8128066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nikaris/pseuds/nikaris
Summary: Death, as it turns out, is eerily quiet—and feels lot like face planting onto a stone floor. It also comes with dragons. A whole lot of dragons.In which the Eye brings Desmond to a world where magic is a thing, there are way weirder beings than the First Civ out there, and the alcohol sucks.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know what I'm doing.

 

For all of Juno’s megalomaniac devices and blatant hatred for humanity, Desmond thinks that it is perhaps a small kindness for her to lie about it not hurting. It reminds him of a parent ripping a Band-Aid off prematurely on the count of _2_ to minimize the pain and though Desmond still hates her, he’s reluctantly grateful for her deceit the moment he touches the Eye. Unexpected pain is better than expected pain.

And it does hurt. A lot.

He can barely breathe, let alone form a coherent thought as the Eye burns him, siphoning the heat of the sun through his veins like ichor. How long it lasts, Desmond isn’t sure. All he is aware of is _fire_ and the insistent humming in his ears growing louder and louder as the Eye pulses through him.

 ** _Endure_** _,_ something urges him, voice like a combination of hundreds of thousands of millions _,_ **_you must_** _**endure**._

It sounds like the world and Desmond latches onto it desperately, using it as an anchor through the torrent attempting to pull him under.

His vision had long faded from the agony, yet in his mind, Desmond sees it—the Earth, shining, spinning, in the void of space and he’s almost brought to tears because more importantly, it’s _safe._ He wants to reach for it—surprised when he can feel himself able to, but just before he’s about to touch it, can’t help but think how _strange_ it is that, enveloped in the sun’s glare, the Earth looks a lot like—like—

**_ENDURE._ **

The pain reaches its crescendo and Desmond _screams,_ feeling the fire in his chest claw its way mercilessly up his throat. He begs for the end. There’s nothing he wants more than for it to _end already,_ and just when he’s at the tipping point _—_

Well.

* * *

Death, as it turns out, is eerily quiet—and feels a lot like face planting onto a stone floor.

Desmond isn’t quite sure what he had been expecting in the first place, to be honest. There had been more pressing matters at the time after all (either walk away and let the world burn or sacrifice his life and stop the solar flare) so thinking about the afterlife hadn’t particularly been something to really stress out about.

(It is mostly the repercussions on those he cared about _that_ _had_.)

He thinks that pearly gates would have been nice or perhaps a gleaming bar in the sky. Desmond wouldn’t have minded either—so long as they give him the respite to rest and wake as just _Desmond_ and not the mismatched caricature of men long dead.

So it’s with some amount of disappointment then, when Desmond gathers enough of his scattered and frayed awareness, to realize that he will be granted none of that.

The air is hot like it had been in the Grand Temple, but its humming and _thick_ with something that has Desmond’s senses feel dulled. It feels like smoke, thick and heavy as it curls lethargically in his lungs.

He tries to move, but his body is sluggish to respond. He can hardly get his eyes to open but as the seconds tick by, he at least manages to work his fingers. He explores what he can, the pads of his fingers catching uneven grooves on the ground until his pinky and ring finger smear across something warm and wet.

That’s weird.

Vaguely, Desmond knows that all of this should concern him. Juno had obviously lied to him yet again. He is very much still alive and the Eye—

Desmond’s train of thought derails.

The Eye.

Her freedom.

_Ah._

And Desmond wants to laugh because that tricky, _tricky bitch—_ but oddly enough, no feelings arise from the realization of Juno’s dishonesty. That should also concern him (he’s sane enough to know that _that_ is not a good indication of his mental health) but the thing is, there’s nothing left in him except bone deep _tiredness_  which makes it all the more worse because, ‘ _wow_ , _I really don’t fucking care.’_

That listlessness lasts all of five seconds—to which bleeds into mild annoyance, sours into frustration, and then, finally, shifts into _fury._

Because of _course_ it turns out this way. Of _course_ his choices still end up _wrong_.

How funny is that?

And this time, Desmond does laugh. It bubbles in his diaphragm, tickles his raw vocal cords, and escapes in throaty hiccups. His eyes are stinging. His chest _aches._ The whole situation is the funniest thing in the world because _Juno lied to him, she must have lied to him because he’s still alive and she’s free, and the solar flare, what about the SOLAR FLARE, **HAD IT ALL BEEN FOR NOTHING—**_

_“By oblivion!”_

Desmond’s eyes snap open and at the same time that adrenaline chases the sluggishness out of his body, the temperature seems to drop several degrees. The voices in his ears cease, making him realize that the constant low hum he’s been hearing hadn’t at all been his head after all, but of that of the _chanting of the black robed figures standing around him_. They seem to hold their breath as he clumsily pushes himself off the ground and it takes Desmond a moment to realize that it isn’t just the ground he has been laying on, but a _ritualistic_ _satanic_ _pentagram made of blood_ of a _dungeon._

“What the _fuck?_ ” Desmond rasps and the robed figures around him recoil in unison (one even _faints_ and if Desmond hadn’t been in so much shock, he would have found it hilarious because if they were going to be weird cult guys, then at least, _own it_ ) stumbling over themselves with thinly veiled terror. The Assassin stumbles away from the group and when his back hits the wall, there’s a clatter as weapons—bows and swords, Desmond realizes numbly _—_ tumble to the ground from the knocked over stand.

The clattering seems to make the robed figures even more agitated, but one of the robed figures however, is braver than the rest. He raises both hands, curling them into loose fists and Desmond has the brief thought of, _‘dude, what are you even doing?’_ before his eyes widen when _fire, fucking FIRE,_ materializes between his palms and shoots right at him.

He throws himself to the side, feeling the heat of it pass inches from his face. His heart hammers in his chest and he can’t even fathom what the hell is going on because how is that even _possible?!_

“Now, brothers! While it’s weak!”

 _‘’It?’’_ Desmond thinks in bewilderment but has little time to dwell on it when he sees the rally rouse the others into action. Their hands glow with light and this time when Desmond propels himself to the other side of the room, it’s to get out of the way of a bolt of _goddamn lightening._ It singes the edge of his hoodie but Desmond barely has time to register that when he hears a whir in the air that is accompanied by a piercing pain in his chest.

“Your soul is ours!” One of the robed figures yells and the staff’s head that is pointed at Desmond progressively begins to brighten. Cursing, the Assassin rolls out of the way and just because all this is really starting to _piss him off,_ he grabs a nearby chair and chucks it in their direction. It ends up harmlessly bouncing off a conjured ward-like shield, (because _fuck you_ , magic is apparently a thing) but it’s enough of a distraction for Desmond to sprint and scoop up the fallen bow from the ground. It’s useless without a projectile but…

 _‘This is gonna suck.’_ Nonetheless, Desmond braces himself, grips the shaft of the arrow lodged in his left pectoral and yanks it out with a pained grunt. Fire blooms from the entry point, making Desmond’s vision go white briefly before he’s dipping into a dead man’s memories and the white is from something different altogether.

Desmond lets out a slow, steadying breath. His awkward grip on the bow shifts. He notches the bloodied arrow, pulls the string back, and when Desmond releases it straight between the closest man’s eyes, it’s to phantom sounds of musket fire in his ears and scent of worn leather in his lungs.

The others scatter among terrified screams. Desmond can hardly understand what they’re screaming about—doesn’t know who these _Divines_ are or what the hell a _daedra_ is—but he wants _out._

He snags a dagger off the fallen body, dances it nimbly between his fingers, and just when Desmond is about to make use of it among the robed men’s disarray, something catches his attention in the corner of his eyes.

In retrospect, Desmond knows that it should have been nothing of note. Among the gold goblets, fine jewels, and lilac flowers upon the dais, the round object looks dull and nondescript in comparison. Despite that, the object pulls Desmond’s gaze to it, making his breath catch and his body still all the same because there is no mistaking the relic.

It’s just as he’d last seen it. _A Piece of Eden._

Something in Desmond croons. _It’s his Apple._

He takes a step towards it and at the same time, one of the robed figures gasps.

“The artifact! Don’t let it—!”

The robed figure closest to the dais plucks the Apple with a withered hand, but doesn’t have it for more than two seconds before Desmond is instantly upon him. The bow cracks and disjoints at the belly when Desmond whips its upper limb across the man’s face. The man and Piece of Eden tumble to the ground and when he quickly recovers to reach for the Apple again, a hard cuff with the broken remnants of the bow against his arm buys Desmond enough time to scoop the Apple away.

To Desmond, that was when time seems to freeze. His eyes dilate as the room becomes swathed in a kaleidoscope of gold. Warmth rushes through his body from his connection to the Apple, electrifying every inch of his skin and leaving him gasping for breath. Something like elation bubbles in his chest and Desmond can’t help but bask in the alien feeling of _rightness_ that overtakes over him the moment the Apple settles in the palm of his hand like an old friend.

He feels… _renewed_ , for lack of better word. Gone is the lingering ache in his body. The throbbing wound left by the arrow dulls and Desmond knows without checking that the blood has stemmed and clotted. He can’t help trembling in exhilaration or the breathless laugh that escapes because _goddamn._

For something as accursed as a First Civilization tech, it certainly has its benefits. Desmond rolls the Apple in his hand leisurely and as if in a trance, admires the faint glow it had taken the second it had come into his possession. It’s no wonder that such a thing could bring great people under its lull.

The assassin brings the golden orb to eye level and just like that, something in Desmond’s mind furls and uncurls. _This is **his** , _instinct says with such fervor that Desmond is nearly taken aback until his gaze draws to the whimpering man who had _dared_ to put his filthy mitts on what is _his._

 _“Mine.”_ Desmond snarls, pure, possessive fury coating his voice, and the man scrambles away with a frightened squeal. He idly notes that his other companions have gone strangely quiet and when Desmond turns to them, he sees the cohort huddling on the other side of the room in varying states of apprehension and fear.

 _‘Good,’_ Desmond thinks viciously. The Apple pulses dangerously in his hand, responding to his anger. It wouldn’t be difficult to fight his way out. He could kill them where they stand. He could kill them before they can even _blink_.

Then, the robed man in the staff steps forward. Desmond tenses, raises the Apple warningly but is caught off guard when instead of attempting to fry him again, the cultist throws his staff to the ground and drops to his knees.

Desmond startles in surprise, “What are you—” 

_“Spare us.”_

_What?_

The robed man’s head bends low, touching the ground. “We beg of you, please! Spare us!” Behind him, his brethren follow suit, bowing their heads low.

From their body language—anxious, but resigned—it doesn’t look like they would fight him if he decides not to.

Which is good, isn’t it? Still, Desmond’s stomach twists uncomfortably and he looks away. “Where’s the exit?”

“P…Pardon?” The kneeling man asks and recoils when Desmond scowls at him impatiently.

“The exit.” Desmond repeats, feeling a headache bloom in his head from their ridiculous pleas. He slides the Apple in a stolen satchel, ignoring the collective sigh of relief at the action. “Where is it?”

“That is all you...?” The man blinks, looking utterly stupefied. His mouth opens and he seems to want to say something else when he suddenly thinks better of it. He slowly points to the wall. “There’s… there’s a lever over there. It leads back out to Skyrim.”

 _‘What the fuck is a Skyrim?’_ Desmond wants to ask but holds his tongue in favor of following the instruction. The wall slides back easily once the lever is pulled and Desmond grins slightly when he feels a draft across face.  

Desmond doesn’t look back. At most, he spares a subdued, “ _thank you_ ” just for politeness’ sake before he’s off through the narrow tunnel without so much as a backwards glance to the gawking robed cult.

It’s a pity too, because if he had, he would have noticed the golden sheen of light that had encompassed the dungeon leave with him.

* * *

 

_'Okay…this is…definitely not New York.’_

That is, of course, an understatement to the highest degree.

Desmond blinks dazedly, looking out into the _miles and miles_ of snow covered pine trees out in the distance.

 _‘Maybe… a national park?’_ Desmond thinks numbly but then retracts that guess almost immediately because last he checked, green auroras like _that_ stretching across the sky aren’t natural in any part of the world _,_ let alone the United States.

And neither is _goddamn magic_.

 _Christ._ Desmond takes a shuddering breath, part of it due of the frigid cold but mostly to temper down the panic threatening to overwhelm him. He catches himself against the trunk of the closest tree. Where in the hell is he? After the debacle at the Grand Temple, he had thought… he had _hoped—_

Desmond scrubs his face. He bites his lip hard.

With forced calm, the assassin glances around for any identifiable markers but grimaces when a quick survey yields nothing of value. No roads, no signposts, no break in the trees—Desmond clicks his tongue but when he tries again with his Sight, breathes a sigh of relief when he finds the trail of red footprints leading out through the trees. It’s faint—hours old considering the intensity of the glow— but it’s a path that looks often used. Hopefully it leads to a town or somewhere safe where he can gather his bearings.

Desmond shivers, burrowing into his hoodie as his breath comes out in cloudy puffs. _‘Some thicker clothes wouldn’t hurt either.’_

The forest is quiet as Desmond navigates his way through the brush. The only sounds he can pick up are of the light crunching of the frost flaked ground, the various sounds of nocturnal wildlife, and the chattering of his teeth.

 _Skyrim,_ the cultist had called this place. Desmond huffs in mild amusement despite himself. It sounds like something straight out of Tolkien.

 _‘Rebecca would get a kick out of this.’_ Desmond thinks absentmindedly as he cautiously scales down a slope in the path, careful as to not slip on the frost. He recalled her being a fan of those sorts of stories. Shaun, on the other hand, would probably have an aneurism. Lips twitching, Desmond can already imagine it. He’d flail around angrily, all the while finding some way to pin the blame on Desmond.

And as for his dad… Desmond’s steps falter. Well, he’d know what to do. Somehow.

He wonders if he’ll ever see them again. It’s a sobering thought and Desmond closes his eyes, swallows his grief. He wonders if they’re okay—wherever they are now. While he had initially been inclined to believe that Juno had lied to him about sacrificing his life in order to stop the solar flare, his current clearer state of mind has forced him to reconsider that assumption. When he thinks back on it, Juno _had_ seemed very sure of herself. Even Minerva—disapproving as she had been— had acknowledged both options, and thus inadvertently gave them all the more merit.

So maybe Juno hadn’t been the one to send him to wherever the hell he is. That still leaves the questions of who, how, and even _why_ —

Desmond stifles a sigh, feeling his head spin. First it’s the Assassin/Templar war, and then it’s First Civilization drama, and now he has to deal with the _magic and mayhem_ of this strange, new world?

 _The cosmos_ , Desmond huffs a little helplessly, s _eems to_ really like _messing with his head_.  

He’s nearing the edge of the forest where the foliage melds into tundra when Desmond hears it:

“That’s close enough.”

Under any other circumstance, Desmond would have berated himself for being so deep in thought as to be unaware of his surroundings, especially when it came to unexpected friends or foes. The only reason why Desmond _isn’t_ doing such is because he’s too busy gawking the moment he notices them—or more particularly, what they’re _wearing._

“How are you not freezing?!” Desmond can’t help but burst out because seeing a campsite of four people isn’t all that surprising—seeing them all dressed in essentially _furs_ that only cover 60% of their bodies in _10F temperature, is!_

In his surprise, Desmond doesn’t notice when he takes a startled step forward until the group collectively narrow their eyes and zero in on the movement. The woman whom had spoken first gets to her feet, drawing a sword from her waist.

“We warned you!”

“You never should have come here!”

And just like that, Desmond’s day gets even better.

“Oh, _come on!_ I didn’t even _do anything!”_ Desmond yells, aggravated, but when that and backing some steps does nothing to placate the assholes from advancing, there’s nothing Desmond can do but turn tail and run.

Is _everyone_ here _shoot-first-ask-questions-later_?! Desmond immediately throws himself behind the cover of a tree just as arrows embed themselves into the bark, before zigzagging his way through the thicker brush. He can hear them behind him, giving chase and—is that barking?

Desmond spares a glance back and promptly reigns in the very, _very,_ strong urge to curse colorfully into the sky. _‘That’s a dog_. _They have a dog. That’s SUPER.’_

_‘FUCK SKYRIM.’_

Thankfully, Lady Luck seems to shine on him because not one second later does Desmond jolt when hears the welcoming sound of rushing water.

The river. He can lose them at the river. Panting, Desmond sprints to the left towards the direction of the water source. He can hardly see where he’s going with the amount of foliage in his way, but Desmond trusts his senses. It’s hardly worth watching where he’s going when he can hear them quickly catching up behind him.

 _But not for long._ Desmond grins manically, the river loud in his ears. He’s almost there. Desmond goes for a running start, aims for the break in the trees, and just when he leaps out of the tall bushes—

“What in the—”

And in that split second, the only things Desmond can register are blonde hair, surprised blue eyes, and the bafflement in a low, deep voice. It’s quickly followed by mild surprise in that _oh, what are the chances,_ sort of way before Desmond sends them both tumbling to the riverbank with a cringingly loud crack of skulls from an accidental head-butt. 

It takes a whole lot of yelling, annoyingly insistent hands, and his head _really hurting_ — _‘Concussion. Yep, that’s definitely a concussion’_ — before Desmond knows nothing more.

* * *

When Desmond next opens his eyes, he’s tied up in a cart.

He’s happy to know, at least, that he took the asshole that had been in his way with him.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Desmond is hard pressed to decide whether or not he's had worse mornings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not truly happy with this chapter because its so SHORT, but the next will certainly be longer. (I'm halfway done on that.)

Surprisingly enough, it isn’t the fact that his hands are bound in front of him, surrounded by armed guards, or steadily traveling to who knows where that Desmond finds most odd about his current situation. To be honest, _everything_ about the entire thing should put Desmond in a not-so-great mood (the grimness carved on his captors’ faces and the dull throbbing in his head are fun contributing factors to that), but instead, he’s actually more bothered by the fact that _its still blue-balls freezing cold_ even with the sunlight streaming through the trees and literally no one around him seems to have a problem with it.

It’s weird, considering that even Conner’s people had had thick layers of protection from winter’s bite. His fellow prisoners among the assembly of guards have all been stripped down to the same flimsy, short-sleeved garments and while subdued, they all seemed freakishly well acclimated to the cold. He’s glad for the fact that they’ve (strangely) allowed him to keep his hoodie, in any case.

Which is a mistake on their part, really, because _wow,_ despite the great show of, ‘you-are-obviously-our-captive-don’t-even-try-anything,’ stunt they got going on, his jailers—the _, Imperial Legion,_ they call themselves—are actually really shitty at their jobs.

He’s still armed, for one. Surprisingly, he can still feel the sheathed dagger he’d stolen strapped against his arm. It’s no hidden blade, but it’s a reassuring weight that gives Desmond some amount of comfort. He’s pretty sure he can struggle his way out of his binds (which are thin and more like _cords_ than actually ropes in the first place) but when he takes note of the guards’ formation and choice weapons at their hips… Well, Desmond doesn’t need his ancestors’ strategic insight to know that it isn’t wise to fight that uphill a battle.

_(‘Know to pick your battles wisely, Desmond can almost hear his ancestors intone—but it’s really just their fancy way of saying, ‘don’t start shit when you’re very clearly outmatched, Jesus Christ.’)_  

There’s a strong, spine-stiffening spike of alarm when he realizes his satchel is gone from his waist _( **his apple, where’s his apple?!),**_ but the staccato of panic is short lived when he spots it untouched among other goods hoarded next to the cart driver. It’s a generous pile comprised of blades, helms, cuirasses…

Desmond frowns, noting the different coloring scheme of the uniforms that are most likely that of his fellow prisoners’ missing outerwear. It makes Desmond somewhat self-conscious of his own white hoodie and jeans ( _‘hide in plain sight, good luck with that,’)_ but it’s somewhat lessened when he notices that he’s not the only odd one out.

Desmond initially thinks nothing of him at first—dismissing the grandiosely dressed man as some lord of whatever whom had deigned to sit with the damned to gloat—until he registers the rope and gag. The man looks familiar though and it’s only when Desmond spots the bruise on the man’s temple that suspiciously matches his own does the former bartender ‘ _ah_ ’s.

Well damn.

It’s that asshole _._

The cart lurches and this time, Desmond can’t contain the sharp intake of air when it rouses the dull throb in his head to an angry flare. Its enough to draw the attention of the man sitting in front of him, whom moments before, had been bickering with a ‘horse thief’ if what Desmond had gathered from their conversation is correct.

“Ah, you’re awake.” The man announces, his previous scowl transforming into a friendly grin when he faces Desmond. “You gave us a scare there. Coming from the trees like that, one would think you chased by the dead themselves if not for the bandits at your heels.”  

Desmond blinks, thrown off by the _ye olde English_ type of speech.

“You were trying to cross the border, right?” The blonde continues and takes Desmond’s thrown silence as a confirmation. “Walked right into that imperial ambush,” he gestures at his comrades with a jerk of his chin, “same as us, and that thief over there.”

At the mention, the horse thief huffs and glares at the blonde haired man. “Damn you, Stormcloaks. Skyrim was fine until you came along. Empire was nice and lazy. If they hadn’t been looking for you, I could’ve stolen that horse and be halfway to Hammerfell.” He turns to face Desmond beseechingly. “You and me—we shouldn’t be here. It’s these Stormcloaks the Empire wants.” 

Desmond doesn’t quite know how to respond to that, utterly blindsided by the sheer amount of word salad thrown his way. “What?” ‘ _What the fuck is a Stormcloak?’_

Ralof grins cordially, unaffected by or even perhaps used to the hostility. “We’re all brothers and sisters in binds now, thief.”

The horse thief scoffs, muttering something under his breath before jerking his head to the finely dressed man in front of him. “And what’s up with him, huh?”

That elicits a more irked response, the blonde bristling in offense. “Watch your tongue. You’re speaking to _Ulfric Stormcloak_ , the true High King.”

And Desmond can’t help it: “True High King.” He repeats; deadpan, because that sounds a lot like bullshit. 

“Aye, friend!” The blonde says, mistaking Desmond’s ‘you’re-kidding-me’ tone as awe. His back straightens and with some pride leaking into his voice, “He challenged High King Torygg to a duel of one our most oldest of ways and _won_ Skyrim—”

“You mean more like _stole_ Skyrim,” interrupts the guard directly behind the blonde. It’s followed by a snort and jeer, “If you’re going to accurately tell an account, _Ralof,_ best get your facts _right_ before I cut your tongue for perjury.”

The aptly named Ralof scowls before his face takes on one of recognition when he sees the guard. “Hadvar. Threaten all you want, but that does not change Skyrim’s rightful allegiance to its King.”

“What allegiance do we have to a so called King who would divide the people and plunge Skyrim into chaos?” Hadvar spits out. At that, the said king's face strains and whatever Ralof says to that is lost to the world as Desmond tunes them both out, utterly disinterested in whatever drama they have going on. He drags his gaze past the other prisoners to the country side, but in doing so, inadvertently meets the ‘True High King’s’ eyes, whom, from the crease in his eyebrows, had been intently studying him. His face is thick with weariness as if he hadn’t been sleeping well, but Desmond can read the question on his face.

Desmond can’t blame him for that. Ulfric had been the only one whom Desmond had detected skepticism from when Ralof had assumed him crossing the border and inwardly, Desmond thanked whatever deity that existed that the sharper man in their little group was gagged.

Still, Desmond glowers at him in reply, uncomfortable with being scrutinized. _‘This is your fault.’_ Desmond thinks sourly.

The sentiment must have shown clearly on his face because at that, the King— _Ulfric Stormcloak—_ raises an eyebrow at him, clearly unimpressed.

“Wait, Ulfric? The Jarl of Windhelm?” The horse thief says, looking at the gagged King. “You’re the leader of the rebellion. But if they captured you…” He pales. “Oh gods, where are they taking us?”

Ralof sobers at that and from the corner of his eyes, Desmond can see Hadvar distance himself from the cart, his face stony. 

“I don’t know where we’re going, but Sovngarde awaits.”

Desmond hasn’t the faintest idea of what ‘Sovngarde’ is, but the way Ralof averts his gaze makes him still.

If possible, the horse thief pales even further. “No… this can’t be happening. This isn’t happening!”

A forceful ‘ _thwak!’_ traveling through the cart from next to him startles Desmond enough to realize that he’s stopped breathing for a moment. He glances at Ulfric—because surely the man had intentionally knocked at the wood of the cart to get his attention—but sees the man looking elsewhere.

(Okay, so maybe the guy isn't a total asshole.)  

Still, Desmond takes a shaky breath. He glances past the cart driver, seeing a village. He commits himself into listening to Ralof and the horse thief’s hushed conversation—anything to distract himself from the quiet panic bubbling in his chest.

_“What village are you from, horse thief?”_

_“Why do you care?”_

_“A Nord’s last thoughts should be of home.”_

_“Rorikstead… I’m from Rorikstead.”_

 

(“None.” Desmond replies when he’s asked and it’s because he doesn’t consider any place a home anymore. He thinks ‘home’ is more like a moment—one of sharp words and hushed, late nights, followed by another, then another, like bricks building upon each other for shelter.)

(They’re moments long passed.)

The sounds of the horses’ hooves clicking against village’s stone roads rattle Desmond’s teeth. He feels colder, somehow.

“This is Helgan,” Ralof says, as if speaking of the weather. “I used to be sweet on a girl from here. Wonder if Vilod is still making that mead with juniper berries mixed in.”

Desmond shivers. His stomach is in knots. He feels like he’s going to throw up.

 

_“Who are they, daddy? Where are they going?”_

_“You need to go inside, little cub.”_

_“Why? I want to watch the soldiers.”_

_“Inside the house. Now.”_

 

And then the cart stops.

“…Why did we stop?” It’s the horse thief that asks.

The laugh Ralof gives is empty. “Why do you think? End of the line.”

They’re in the town square, Desmond can tell. There’s a large, dark robed man standing in wait in the center of the square. He carries an axe.

And in front of him is a block.

And in that moment, something in Desmond shuts off. He goes blissfully numb. The village fades away and when he blinks, he’s back at the Grand Temple with the Eye before him as still as a tomb.

 

_“Save one. Your touch, a spark. A spark to save the world.”_

Desmond blinks again and feels the cold. He barely registers following the others out of the cart until he catches the horse thief’s arm when the man stumbles over his own feet.

“Thanks.” The horse thief mumbles, subdued, but the wild look in his eyes belays his portrayed calm. It reminds Desmond of the horses not yet tamed on the Farm, skittish and always foolhardily running at the first sign of an out.   

And from that, Desmond knows without a doubt that the horse thief is going do to something stupid and he can’t—will _not_ allow that to happen.

From the corner of his eyes, Desmond sees a guard notch an arrow, watching the horse thief—(“Lokir.” The horse thief says when Desmond asks and he _understands_ when Lokir pauses to echo his name as if to make sure Desmond _remembers it_. He doesn’t let go of Lokir’s arm until the man stops shaking)—warily, before lowering his bow when Lokir looks significantly less like he’s going to run.

A name is called and Desmond resolutely looks to the ground when the axe sails through the air, penetrates flesh, and catches on the wooden block. Beside him, Lokir prays. ( _“Shor, Mara, Dibella, Kynareth, Akatosh. Divines, please help me.”)_

He sees boots step into his line of sight. It’s Hadvar, confused, and referring to his captain when he says there’s an ‘Imperial’ not on the list. Desmond isn’t afforded any hope (or confusion) when the woman sends him to the block despite that. For a moment, Hadvar looks like he’s going to argue, before he acquiesces.

“I’m sorry. We’ll make sure your remains are returned to your homeland.”

(But home is long gone and Desmond is never going to see his mom, his dad, _his team—_ ) 

Desmond closes his eyes, breathes in deep, and savors the taste of bitter ash in his mouth.

 

_Juno smiles. “You played your part well, Desmond.”_

  

And as he’s pushed to the ground, his neck barred over the stained block with his executioner above him, Desmond has the quiet hope that dying _sticks_ this time because it’s far too cruel to give him the illusion of living just to _take it_ away.

So, Desmond doesn’t look away. He watches the axe reach its peak above his executioner’s head, eyes wide, enraptured—

And it’s the fact that Desmond is watching so intently that makes him the first one to notice the goddamn dragon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments/Reviews are greatly appreciated!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oddly enough, the dragon is the least of Desmond’s worries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Looking over the comments section in this story… I realized that I’m a liar. I forgot about posting a chapter last February, mostly because I wasn’t satisfied with what was already written. Sorry about that--but look! I made it extra long for you! 
> 
> (Special thanks to MisoMiz for the advice on my writer’s block for this.)

“That’s a dragon.”

That’s either the fourth or fifth time his fellow prisoner has stated the fact, but Ralof can tell that it’s still not sinking in. Not that he can blame the man of course, because it was, by all accounts, a _dragon_ but even he had the self-preservation to take advantage of a fabled monster’s arrival to escape execution. As such, Ralof had pulled the strange man—and he _was_ strange, for everyone had seen how he had looked upon his executioner with welcome, fearless abandon— along with the horse thief and every kinsman still on their feet to safety.

“A _dragon._ ” The man—an Imperial, he recalls the guardswoman guessing—emphasizes forcibly and Ralof is just grateful that the horse thief isn’t going through the same existential crisis. Instead, Lokir is panting along with him in a similar state of panic, dodging past collapsing wooden beams whilst hustling their new friend along whenever he lags.

“Ralof! Into the tower!” A Stormcloak points. The tower is straight ahead of them, but it’s a daunting amount of ground to cover to reach it.

There’s a tense moment where the dragon roars from above, making the air swelter, before its flying off again, circling the burning village like a vulture to carrion.

“Quickly!” Ralof yells and just when they’ve cleared the courtyard, the dragon snarls again, loud and foreboding. It makes the earth tremble minutely and the white clothed man abruptly falters at the door, staring back out to the dragon in stunned disbelief.

“Did you hear what it just—” Lokir yanks the man forward before he’s able to finish his sentence, the door slamming shut behind them all for some brief peace.

They aren’t alone in the tower. Looking around, Ralof spots most of his company in various states of wear and tear but it’s the sight of a fur trimmed cloak that has him sending a quick thanks to the Divines above. It’s interrupted when the dragon roars again outside, making everyone cringe. The white clothed man reacts the most severely, spine stiffening and face going white. 

Ralof hides a grimace. He can understand. It’s one thing to hear them as bedside stories, another to see them with your very own eyes. Perhaps it for his peace of mind or just because he needs to confirm to himself that this isn’t a grandmaster illusion that Ralof stumbles to his king, beseeching, “Jarl Ulfric! That thing! Could the legends be true?”

At that, his fellow Stormcloaks stir, dirty faces looking to the tall Nord like mountain flowers to the sun. For all Ralof knows, he is just that to them; a source of light – someone whom would take Skyrim out of the shadows of a Thalmor manipulated Empire.

Ralof remembers a time where it had been thought impossible—because what could a ragtag army of farmers and sellswords go against a mighty Empire—but then Ulfric had shown again and again his love for his country and countrymen.

And High King Torygg had fallen.

“Legends don’t burn down villages.” Ulfric says, but it’s the fact that his voice is contemplative instead of uncertain, eyes narrowed instead of wide, that offers Ralof some solace because despite the severe implication of his words, Ulfric Stormcloak is known as the cunning Bear of Markarth for a _reason_.

Ulfric closes his eyes briefly before shifting his gaze to survey their numbers. It’s regrettably small, Ralof realizes with a wince—the remaining half of their forces after the Imperial Empire’s ambush now dwindled down to merely a handful thanks to the beast circling above their heads.

Ralof looks to his king, knowing by the frown on his face that he’s reached the same conclusion, only to blink in surprise when he notices how the Nord’s eyes fixes on the white clothed Imperial.

The Imperial is lingering by the doors, conversing quietly with Lokir—though it’s more like the horse thief is speaking _at_ the Imperial rather than _to_ consider how the lad only seems to be paying the Nord only half his attention.

The other half is on _them._

Like the rest of them, the Imperial looks exhausted. He’s nearly curled into himself, back bowed almost submissively, but his eyes, Ralof notices, are anything but _._ They dart around warily, measuring each person in their shelter as if considering them potential threats. Even when a Stormcloak does the lad a favor by cutting him out of his binds, his gaze is still distrustful, but he nods thankfully anyways, gingerly rubbing his wrists as he does.

It’s a curious reaction for one that Ralof had deemed harmless, near _mouse-like_ , due to the man’s constant anxiety.

But then again, Ralof settles, even cornered mice will bite.

Still, it doesn’t help the unexplainable feeling Ralof gets when he examines the Imperial. The lad’s looks, his speech, and even his strange clothing—there was something about the male that didn’t _match up._ For an Imperial, the man doesn’t fit the mold he’s seen in Skyrim before. Despite what Hadvar had guessed, Ralof isn’t too sure himself that his fellow prisoner is even an Imperial in the first place.

“What do you know of him?” Ulfric rumbles quietly, startling Ralof out of his scrutiny. He glances to his Jarl and notes the calculating look pointed at the Imperial.

‘As much as any of us do’, Ralof is about to say, when the tower abruptly lurches. 

“The dragon!” Someone yells over a stressed, _“Holy Shit!”_ from the Imperial. Brick goes flying as the tower trembles and from the newly made maw of the tower, a torrent of fire licks two Stormcloaks whom had been on top of the stairway.

“They’ll live.” A kneeling Stormcloak says shakenly when its deemed safe to check over the two. “Another second out there with the dragon, and they’d both be dead.”

“The dragon will bring down the whole tower at this rate.” Ulfric curses under his breath before looking over the others. “We need to move.”

 _Where_ , is the main question. With the door barricaded from rubble, the only way reliably forward is up—or perhaps through the hole in the wall. A hurried survey outside tells Ralof that the Inn immediately across from the tower is still somewhat intact. A majority of the roof is destroyed, but the second floor still looks accommodating. It’s also a fortunately direct path to Helgen Keep.

He points it out to the others and when the Imperial is prodded by another Stormcloak to go first, Ralof expects the minute hesitation. He’s seen his fellow prisoner lag in a daze following the dragon’s initial attack and pitying the man, Ralof moves to request a Stormcloak sister-in-arms to assist the man through when he catches a streak of white out of the corner of his vision. Startled, Ralof turns just in time to see the Imperial through the hole and in the air.

 _‘Good man,’_ Ralof praises inwardly but his approval melts into disbelief when the man _doesn’t just_ drop to the second floor like he thinks he will. Instead, the Imperial catches himself onto a ridge of the partly destroyed roof with both hands. The tips of his shoes collide with a beam under him but instead of being stunned from the contact, he uses the momentum to _bounce_ his upper body above the rooftop. His legs straighten perpendicular to the beam as he does so before they fold above the tiles, knees tucking neatly under him as the Imperial essentially _perches_ onto the rooftop all in one fluid movement.  

Behind his soldiers, Ulfric’s eyebrows arch appreciatively. _‘Well now…’_

The Imperial looks natural there, perched on top of a narrow beam of wood and when the lad looks back to them, canting his head questionably as if asking, _‘Are you coming or what,’_ Ralof can’t help but snort in amusement once the surprise wears off because stranger and _stranger,_ this was an interesting one to come across.   

Unfortunately, the dragon takes that moment to fly a little too close for comfort, the heavy beat of its wings causing the foundation of the Inn to creak and destabilize.

Ralof growls low in his throat, knowing that it would not be able to hold all of them now. They’ll have to find another way and regrettably, the Nord calls out, “Go, friend! We’ll follow you when we can!”

The man gives him a dubious look before he nods and with a small wave, proceeds to dive off the roof and out of sight.

* * *

_‘I need a drink.’_ Desmond grouses as he brushes off the straws of hay from a coincidentally well-placed hay pile off his clothes. The village is burning, people are dying, there’s a _motherfucking dragon_ on the loose, and _Desmond really needs a drink._

Desmond isn’t an alcoholic. By all accounts, drinking is an occupational hazard for a bartender. At the Bad Weather, there hadn’t been a rule for any of their bartenders _not_ to drink, but they _were_ in the bar business; it was a given that if they _were_ going to, then they had better damn well be able to manage it.

And Desmond _can_ manage it. He’s not a monster like the regulars on Friday nights who could drink the Bad Weather dry if they really wanted to, but Desmond can hold his liquor and knows when to stop because getting wasted isn’t worth it if he’s going to wake up the next morning feeling like his head’s been trampled.

But today, on this wintery, panic-inducing day, he’ll make an exception because _Jesus Christ_ he’s too damn sober for this.

 _“Yoor Toor Shul!”_ An inhuman voice booms in the air and Desmond grits his teeth as it reverberates inside his skull. The call is accompanied with a fresh wave of heat that boils the air and Desmond thanks whatever deity up there that exists that the dragon is too preoccupied dealing with the soldiers to pay much attention to him. 

Which brings him to his current predicament.

 _It’s not here._  

Desmond is knee deep in the snow at the center of the executioner’s square. He can barely feel the cold seeping into his jeans as he sifts through the wreckage of what used to be the cart, searching through its remains again and again with increasing dread. He tosses away broken wood and other useless items but no matter how much he looks; his satchel isn’t here.  

 ** _His apple isn’t here._**  

 _Don’t freak out. Don’t freak out._ Desmond clenches at the fabric of his jeans, forcing himself to take deep breaths as he tries to control the pounding of his heart because he _cannot_ have a panic attack in the middle of this chaos even if his only link to _home_ is _gone_ and _ohgodit’sgoneit’sgonewhatishegoingtodowhatishegonnaDO—_

“ _Haming!_ You need to get out of there _now_!”

Desmond gasps at the shout, recognizing the urgent voice as Hadvar. The soldier is some paces away where the brunt of the dragon’s fire is concentrated. He’s covered in soot, sword in hand, as he waves his free hand at—

 _“ **HAMING**!” _  

“Son of a—” 

Adrenaline and panic thrumming in his veins, Desmond can barely register what he’s doing until he’s got the kid under his arm, skidding off to the side and panting in exertion as the spot where the kid _had_ been is scorched black.

“What were you _doing?!_ ” Desmond exclaims between breaths, but the child ignores him in favor of wiggling out of his hold with a distraught, _“Papa!”_

Luckily, Hadvar catches the boy before he takes two steps towards the charred remains of a house. “Enough, Haming. You heard your father’s last words.” He catches Desmond eyes, nods in gratitude, before beckoning at an old man— _Gunnar,_ Hadvar calls him _—_ to take the child to safety.

“I’m surprised you’re still alive, Prisoner.” Hadvar says once the area is temporarily clear of the dragon. ( _‘You and me, both.’_ Desmond thinks.) “Keep close to me if you want to stay that way.”

“Gods guide you!” Gunnar yells gravely and Hadvar dips his head to him before motioning to Desmond to follow him. There’s a tense moment when the dragon swoops down and perches on the adjacent stone wall they’re passing, but it leaves soon enough, if not without killing a couple archers that had been unlucky enough to get caught in its fire.

“Quickly!” Hadvar calls once the dragon has taken off and Desmond spares the bodies a brief prayer when they pass through the site. It isn’t long before they catch up to several other soldiers and Hadvar nearly sags in relief at the sight of a man whom Desmond vaguely recognizes as one of the few people to speak during the execution.

“General Tullius!”

“Hadvar!” The general barks, “Into the keep, soldier, we’re leaving!” He doesn’t spare Desmond a glance as he jerks his head towards the direction of a large, stone structure. “Gather the others if you—"

_“Toor Shul!”_

_‘Would you_ _shut up?’_ Desmond thinks irritably, shooting a scathing look at the dragon when he feels his temple start to throb. He’s getting real sick of the dragon’s incessant _yelling_ in gibberish he doesn’t even understand

“C’mon.” Hadvar says and Desmond doesn’t resist when Hadvar pulls him to the direction of a stone overhang. There’s a soldier standing on the ledge, shooting arrows into the sky. 

And just because the universe happens to love conflict, that’s when they run into Ralof.

“Ralof.” Hadvar growls to which the Assassin can’t help but look on incredulously as Ralof bristles in response because are they _actually_ doing this _now_? “Pity not seeing you between the dragon’s teeth.”  

“I could say the same to you, Hadvar.” Ralof bites out, raising his sword, “but then again, I give credit to the dragon for not ruining its appetite with a pile of _scrib jelly._ ”

Hadvar’s face turns red. _“Scrib jelly?!”_

Yes, they’re _actually doing_ this now. 

Luckily, Desmond is saved from banging his head against the nearest stonewall when Lokir— _blessed, drama-free Lokir—_ pops his head out from behind Ralof. (Desmond idly wonders where the rest of the small band of Stormcloaks are, but it’s hardly something to really consider now.) 

“Lokir.” Desmond greets with a faint grin and the horse thief seems to brighten at seeing a friendly face before his face abruptly drops.

_“Vol Toor Shul!”_

“Look out!” Lokir yells and immediately, they scatter haphazardly out of the way of another stream of fire that blackens the dirt in a clean straight line.

Ralof coughs roughly from the smoke curling in the air, face now as ashy as Hadvar’s. “We’re—we’re escaping, Hadvar! And you can’t stop us!”

“Fine!” Hadvar shouts back hoarsely. “I hope that dragon takes you all to Sovngarde!”

Then, Ralof looks to Desmond and _no, no, no,_ there is no way in _hell_ that Ralof—“You! Come on, into the keep!”

—or even Hadvar—

Hadvar balks indignantly, looking to Desmond just as expectantly. “No, with **_me,_** prisoner! Let’s go!” 

—is going to pull _him_ into this!

“ _Fuck that shit_!” Desmond yells right back and because he’d rather escape out of this mess with someone who isn’t adding to his escalating stress, he grabs a confused horse thief by the arm and shoves them both through the nearest door.

* * *

The keep, oddly enough, withstands the dragon’s temper tantrum fairly well. The stone groans when the beast flies close, but its walls holding strong is a testament to its strength in architecture. 

Desmond is quite impressed with it (not that he has many keeps to really compare it to and considering the _Villa_ as one is a stretch) if not only because complimenting its formability is a good distraction from the panic attack he’s currently having inside. 

Curled against the door on the ground with his head in his hands, the faint roars and his own ugly, ragged breathing are the only sounds that occupy the still, dusty air.

Desmond can’t stop or hold it in even if he wants to. He’s tried clasping a hand over his mouth but all that does is make him wheeze until he’s gasping so desperately that it makes his throat ache. He knows that he’s close to breaking down. Every single crazy, insane, stressful thing that’s happened in the last 24 hours is catching up to him and he feels like he’s unraveling at the seams because _he doesn’t want to be **here** and his apple is **gone** and god, he can’t do this right now and like **this** —_

“Friend?” A voice murmurs tentatively and Desmond’s eyes snap open in alarm, acutely aware that he’s not alone. How had he forgotten about Lokir?

Swallowing the lump in his throat, Desmond gasps out, “Desmond. My name—it’s Desmond.” The sudden vertigo that sneaks up on him after nearly makes him want to empty his stomach. He focuses on a crack on the floor between his feet, grips at the fabric of his jeans to keep his hands from shaking so hard. Shame makes his face burn uncomfortably. _God,_ what is he doing?

He hears Lokir shift uncomfortably, the tips of his fur shoes stepping into his line of sight. “Are you—” 

“I’m _fine_.” Desmond assures him but bites the inside of his cheek when he realizes it had come out more sharply than he’d intended. He blinks rapidly. “I’m fine—I’m, _shit_ —” He wipes his face and finds it wet. It takes a couple seconds for him to pull himself together and when he chances a glance up, Lokir is watching him carefully, concern etched on his face. His hands are in front of him, palms faced outwards which Desmond can’t help but snort at because the man is treating him like some skittish _horse._

“I’m good.” Desmond says again, squeezing his eyes shut as he leans his head back against the door. He forces himself to believe it even with the nausea that is beginning to churn in his stomach. Slow and steady, Desmond tells himself. He just needs to hold himself together…

“If you say so.” Lokir replies, voice doubtful but he doesn’t argue. He waits a moment, before saying almost apologetically, “We should keep moving.”

Slowly, the Assassin nods, and only opens his eyes when he’s sure that the sourness creeping in his mouth is gone. The keep won’t hold forever. Already, he can hear the stones creak like gnashing teeth, dust falling from the ceiling. There’s only one way to go from what he can tell, but when Desmond staggers to his feet and activates his Eagle Vision, he’s relieved when it shines in welcome.

Bracing himself, Desmond looks to Lokir, and grins thinly. “Let’s go.”

* * *

Call him crazy, but Desmond feels like they’re in some sort of video game with the amount of looting they’re doing. It’s a necessity, of course. It’s hard to miss the telltale sounds of clashing steel from up ahead and Desmond isn’t too keen on any confrontations armed with just an iron dagger.

Unfortunately, the weapons he does find in the next room (which looks like a living area for soldiers) aren’t really any better. The steel swords from the weapon racks have a better rating than what he currently has but it only takes a test swing for him to have traces of Ezio grumble in dissatisfaction in the back of his head. 

(Well, beggars can’t be choosers.) 

Lokir, for his part, is armored head to toe in Imperial armor. Desmond only takes the bracers when Lokir offers the rest of his haul (“The chest armor will weigh me down,” Desmond explains when the horse thief gives him a questioning look) and hands him a spare steel sword in return. Compared to the prominently cloth armor he’s used to, the protection the armor offers is superior, but its weight and sheer _noisiness_ factor is hardly a worthwhile tradeoff. 

“I can’t believe it. That was really a dragon.” Lokir murmurs once they’re making their way further into the keep. He winces at every sound, hands tightening awkwardly around the sword’s grip. Lokir following Desmond’s lead almost in a daze and jumps when the sound of a cave-in echoes from ahead. “Just like the children’s story and legends. The bringer of End Times.” 

“That really seems to be a running theme lately.” Desmond mutters under his breath.

“What?” 

“Nothing!” Desmond says cheerily and comes to a stop when they reach the end of the hallway that is marked by the cave-in. There’s a door to their left that looks like the only option forward, but when Desmond activates his Sight—

He grabs Lokir’s arm in warning, pulling the other man into a crouch behind the wall.  

“…potions in here. We’re going to need them.” 

“Stormcloaks.” Lokir breathes in recognition once he peeks around the corner, but his relief turns to confusion when Desmond doesn’t let him go of his arm. “We were prisoners too. Maybe they’ll—”   

 _“_ They won’t.” Desmond shakes his head urgently, eyes narrowed at the four soldiers ahead. They’re _red_ in his Sight but worst off, also in their way. Perhaps they can sneak past? Or wait until they pass? Desmond is about to regale the plan to Lokir when there’s a rustle of iron from the other side of the room, the sound of footsteps, and then—

“Hey now!” A voice calls and when they both peer around the door frame, incredulous, Desmond nearly does a doubletake because _what the hell is Hadvar—the Stormcloak’s friggin’ captor—doing?!_

Sure enough, the Imperial soldier is standing in the dim lighting, hands up in a pacifying gesture—which doesn’t seem to be doing its job considering how the four Stormcloaks shoot to their feet in alarm.

The brunet steps forward, grin genial. “Listen, I mean no harm—”

But Hadvar doesn’t get a chance to get another word in when the air immediately turns hostile, the soldiers immediately drawing their weapons.

“Imperial!” The Stormcloak woman in charge yells, “Get him!”

Hadvar’s face falls into a scowl once seeing the peaceful approach as a failure. “Have it your way!” He unsheathes his sword with practiced ease, but Desmond catches the minute wince on his face in the motion and the darkened splotch on his sleeve. He favors his right shoulder.

 _‘He’s injured.’_ Desmond realizes.

“We should move while they’re distracted.” Lokir whispers and the horse thief is right—this is the perfect opportunity. They just need to get to the other side of the room and then they could be on their merry way _without conflict_ but—

Hadvar cries out when a Stormcloak catches him across his weaker side.

 

_“I’m sorry. We’ll make sure your remains are returned to your homeland.”_

 

The soldier had been kind. To reassure those on death row their body’s passage to their homelands had been _a kindness_ and Desmond gets the feeling that the man would have fought to make sure it happened even if their corpses would have likely been left elsewhere.  He doesn’t _know_ Hadvar, but against his better judgement, Desmond can’t watch him be cut down in good conscience.

No, this wouldn’t do at all. _(It is not his time, yet, if he has any say in it.)_

“What are you doing?!” Lokir hisses in alarm when Desmond rises to his feet. 

And besides, Desmond settles, Hadvar isn’t that big of an asshole, anyways.

“Get ready.” Desmond mutters to a wide-eyed Lokir and that’s all the warning the horse thief gets before he throws them both into the fray.

* * *

As far as his day is going, Hadvar isn’t quite having the best.

The dragon is, of the course, the biggest contributor to his very bad day, but then again, he should have known that the day would go sour when he had found _Ralof,_ of all people, among their count of captured Stormcloak solders. 

Traitors and flying lizards aside, Hadvar would have been content to end his day on that note, but then they had _had_ to go into the _damned keep._

In retrospect, Helgen Keep was, of course, the best option to retreat to in their current predicament. He and his fellow soldiers had thought that they’d be safe from the dragon until it (hopefully) lost interest in them, but they hadn’t realized the dangers presented _inside_ the Keep. They weren’t the only ones to think to seek refuge inside its stone walls.

They had managed to make it past confrontations from man and beast alike, but then the keep had shaken, causing the western hall to collapse and separate Hadvar from his companions lest he be crushed by the rubble.

All in all, Hadvar was _not_ having a good day, whatsoever.

 _‘This, at least, would make a fine tale to tell at home.’_ Hadvar thinks because it really is the only silver lining to this whole ordeal.

“Imperial!” The woman yells and Hadvar’s smile falters. _“Get him!”_

Assuming he makes it home, of course.

Hadvar curses and immediately draws his sword in time to meet with the woman’s. The force of the interception makes him grit his teeth and the shoulder wound from an earlier Stormcloak skirmish flares angrily. The injury is hardly a grievous one, but on his _sword arm,_ its nearly debilitating. Hadvar grits his teeth and pushes the woman away just in time to avoid a swinging axe from one of her soldiers. He manages to disarm one Stormcloak briefly before he’s pushed back by the woman again.

However, Hadvar isn’t one to fool himself. He doesn’t have a high hope in this fight because against _four,_ no matter how hard he’s trained or garnered from his Uncle’s teachings, there is little he can do with a lame arm and waning energy.  

So, when he’s finally pushed back by their onslaught, Hadvar braces himself, (praying, _please, Divines, he doesn’t want to die)_ only to catch something odd, just out of the corner of his eyes.

He sees a flutter of white that reminds him of feathers. It’s followed by a gleam of gold, bright and nearly _unearthly,_ from underneath a shadowed hood.  

It has Hadvar mesmerized for a second, wondering in amazement if he is seeing Arkay himself before his own death—until he blinks and the Stormcloak soldier that _should_ have impaled him by now is on the ground with someone in white— _that mouthy Imperial from before, he realizes—_ on top of him, an iron dagger buried into the base of his neck. It catches the other two Stormcloaks by surprise but Hadvar has enough wits in him to take the opening when he sees it, smacking the hilt of his sword into the Stormcloak-at-his-left’s nose.

The Nord brings his blade down swiftly when the Stormcloak recoils but when Hadvar turns around to deal with the captain, he stops when he notices the deed already done, the strangely clad Imperial already crouched over her body, the sword slick and stained in his hand. 

Oddly, the Imperial doesn’t acknowledge him as he expects when he rises. Instead, he goes to the first Stormcloak he had taken down, turning the corpse over to its back, and then running his hand over the corpse’s face. Hadvar has a moment of disgust at that until he realizes that the corpse’s eyes are now closed. A glance at the woman yields the same result. The Imperial had closed her eyes too.

That is…an interesting sentiment, especially for a criminal.

(But then again, he _hadn’t_ been on the list. So, perhaps he shouldn’t jump to conclusions.) 

Yet, something nags the back of Hadvar’s head. He’s missing something, isn’t he? He counts three bodies on the ground.

He had dealt with one Stormcloak and the Imperial had gotten the other two. Hadvar jerks up in alarm, frantically scanning the room. _Where is the fourth?_

No sooner had the thought passed, he sees a hint of dyed blue fabric from the nearby stone support. The pale sleekness of a blade glints against the overhanging torch light above the unsuspecting Imperial.

“Watch out!” Hadvar yells, but even as the Imperial’s head jerks up, Hadvar knows it’s useless because no matter how fast the brunet is, there is no escaping that arc in such little space. He moves forward anyways, hoping _somehow_ that he can block the blade before it can sever the man’s head from his body when—

_**BONG.** _

The Stormcloak falls like a sack of potatoes.

Above him, is Lokir, the horse-thief. He looks terrified and in both hands is a bronze vase with a _very_ sizable dent.

And as the Imperial starts to snort and dissolve into breathless laughter (praising the sheepish horse-thief all the while,) all Hadvar can do is just stare on in bewilderment. 

* * *

“Thank you for your help.” Hadvar says once he collects himself. He still looks a bit dazed—not that Desmond can blame him because even he’s still wowed by that _nice save._ The soldier snaps out of it and dips his head in gratitude, a polite grin planted on his face. “Lokir of Rorikstead and… Desmond, was it? That would have turned out badly without your intervention.”

“No problem.” Desmond grins, wiping his eyes once his laughter wears off. He feels lighter—a little less strung out—and is so very glad that he had chosen to take Lokir with him because _damn,_ he’d needed that.

“What were you doing alone, anyways?” Lokir asks warily.  He’s looting the bodies, pocketing gold coins but when he comes across a small healing potion, hesitantly offers it to Hadvar. It’s meant to be a peace offering because even though he doesn’t like the Empire, he’s willing to put that aside if it means escaping the keep alive.

Understanding the sentiment for what it is, Hadvar accepts the bottle with a grateful nod. “Cave-in. I was in one of the western halls when I was separated from my company.” Hadvar explains after a generous gulp of the liquid. “I imagine many were,” His face sours, “including Ralof and his band of traitors if they are still stumbling about in here.”

Desmond quirks an eyebrow at that as he stows away his iron dagger. “Bad history, huh?”  

“He’s a Stormcloak.” Hadvar says solemnly as if that explained everything. (It really doesn’t—but Desmond is just going to let sleeping bears lie.) The soldier hands the bottle back to Lokir before addressing them both. “In any case, we should move together. It will better our chances of getting out of here alive with the cave passage so close.”

“Cave passage? You saying you know your way around here?” Desmond asks hopefully.  

Hadvar hums. “More or less. All keeps have different layouts depending on what it is intended for but there is always a cave exit out to Skyrim somewhere.”

 

The soldier is thankfully right. With the silent agreement to travel together, they had no sooner traversed through a narrow hallway on the Nord’s direction before the temperature dropped and the walls transitioned from organized brick to mossy, unworked stone. It’s like they’ve entered a cave system that has seen its fair share of travelers, if the stray pouches of coin and worn-down skeletons are any indication.     

“Not used to the cold, I take it.” Hadvar chuckles, noticing Desmond shiver from the corner of his eyes. He’s leading their small party, lighting the way with a torch in hand.

“Cold? It’s _freezing_.” Desmond bites out and shoots a jealous glare at Hadvar and Lokir, whom despite having armor that is short sleeved, seem utterly unaffected by the low temperature. Desmond rubs his arms to get a little friction going. “How are you two used to _this_?”

“Ah, I forget you aren’t a Nord like us.” Lokir says, looking backwards, and beside him, Hadvar hums in agreement.

Desmond raises an eyebrow. What did that matter? “Meaning…?”

“Well, we Nords are not only famed for our talent as warriors, but also for our resistance to the cold.” Hadvar answers slowly and eyes Desmond with some confusion. “You’re not aware of this?” 

“I’m… not really from around here.” Desmond admits, filing away that piece of information. So, Nords were a race, it looked like. This was…sounding more and more like what’d he’d expect to see in fantasy novels. What next? Elves? Orcs?

It all sounds so _ridiculous_ and even though Desmond tries not to dwell on it, the fact that this place is so absurdly different from home leaves his stomach tight with knots. What he’d give to go _home._

But then again, was there even a way to get home?

Desmond lets out an unsteady breath, feeling lightheaded and dizzy all at the same time at the thought—like someone’s stuffed cotton balls in his head and let him tumble downhill. His only link of home was through the Apple, but it hadn’t been anywhere in the cart. For all he knew, it could have gotten lost in other debris or worse—someone might have taken it in the chaos for whatever reason. If that was the case, then where did that leave him?

What then?

“—iend? Desmond?”

Desmond jerks, unaware that somewhere along his train of thought, he’d stopped in the middle of the tunnel. Lokir and Hadvar are peering at him with varying degrees of concern on their faces. They’ve backtracked for him, Desmond realizes, and embarrassed, spares them an apologetic grin as he moves to catch up. “I—sorry, got lost in thought.”

“It seemed more than that.” Hadvar says doubtfully, brows arched. “We called your name, but you didn’t seem to hear us. You looked… distressed.”

Desmond gives as huff of dull laughter, running a shaky hand through his hair. “ _Stressed_ , is more like it.” He pauses, considering the two, before asking, “By any chance… did you happen to see anyone take anything from the cart I was in after the dragon attacked? Or anything about _this_ big,” he emphasizes the size with his hands, “round and gold colored in a leather satchel?”  

Hadvar hums under his breath, eyes narrowing in thought. “Hard to tell with the chaos happening, but I don’t recall seeing anything like that.”

Desmond looks to Lokir hopefully, but when he too shakes his head in negative as well, bites the inside of his cheek to keep his disappointment from showing.   

Well, it was worth a shot.

His Apple was still out there somewhere, then. Desmond scoffs under his breath, uncertain as to why the thought makes the palms of his hands itch. He’s searched for Pieces of Eden before but it’s the first time its accompanied by this _nagging ache_ —like there’s a pestering blind spot of a void in the corner of his eyes that he can’t quite ignore.

Which is… kind of weird, but Desmond writes it off as just his anxiety talking. It’s not like it _means_ anything, right?

“That sounds like an odd thing to have.” Lokir professes, frowning. “Was it a memento or something?”

“Or something.” Desmond responds wryly. _‘Object of mass megalomania, First Civ crazy-magnet, or glorified stress ball. Take your pick.’_

“Well, friend. I’m sure you’ll find it. You seem like a lucky one, after all.” Hadvar asserts confidently. At Desmond skeptic looks, the soldier elaborates, “You narrowly escaped the block with your neck intact, a dragon rampaging over Helgen, and managed to make it this far. Whether it be by the blessings of a Divine on your side or not, that makes you a fortunate one in my eyes. So, whatever you’re looking for, I’m sure it’ll come back to you somehow.”

“Wow, Hadvar. Didn’t figure you to believe in that sort of thing.” Desmond says, the corners of his lips quirking upwards. Hadvar had struck Desmond as a sort of pessimistic person, to be honest. Considering from what he’d gathered that Skyrim was in some sort of civil war, it’s to be expected.

“In these trying times, I’ll take anything.” Hadvar confides amiably and when they come across a barrier, the soldier obligingly pulls a lever to lower the barrier into a bridge.

Hadvar crosses first, the wood groaning oddly as he does, but Desmond doesn’t pay it any mind. His attention is instead caught by the sight of a mini waterfall a scant distance away and when Desmond sees it stretch further through the cavern, he nearly sags in relief. As far as indications went for a way out, water is good. _Rushing_ water is better.

 _‘Fortunate, huh? Sure, doesn’t feel like it in the long scheme of things, but maybe there’s some merit in that._ ’ Desmond isn’t on board with that sort of belief in superstition and luck, but the sentiment makes him feel better all the same. With the river as a sign of them being close to getting the fuck out of here, maybe…maybe things _were_ looking up.

But the moment Desmond takes a step forward, a loud _crack_ whips through the air. He registers his foot meeting air, startled twin cries of his name, and looking up into crumbling stone until all he feels is numbing pain.

 _‘Fucking called it,’_ is Desmond’s last thought before his vision goes dark as the ceiling caves in, taking him and the wooden bridge with it.


End file.
